


Things that go 'Whump'

by AmanitaVirosa



Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: ...I have too many tags I think, Affectionate idiots, Alright!, Also a tendancy to flail when tickled, Artemis is finding himself less fond of tents, Artemis isn't as flexible as he used to be..., Artemis will decide...later, Artemis wishes Jarlaxle would Stahp, Artemis would also like to know where his boundaries have disappeared to with the peacock, But Jarlaxle had fun so..., But here you go!, Completed on the last day!, Electrocution Kink, Fic within a Fic, He’d really like to stop pitching them so easily, I didn't abandon it, I just had a bit of a block the last few days, I swear, I’m just adding more now, Jarlaxle a little too eager to hit dat ass, Jarlaxle always wins, Jarlaxle has fun, Jarlaxle likes dat ass, Jarlaxle taking full advantage of sharing a bedroll, Jarlaxle's painful morning after, Just say it to each other’s faces already, Just to be safe, Like next morning later, M/M, Mature rating chapter 25, Mature rating chapter 31, Mature rating for chapter 18 and 21, Mention of rape in chapter 28, Recovery snippet!, Seized muscles, Suuuuper ticklish, There's a reason he wears so much armor, Tickling, Walking is...impeded, What is this 'south' you speak of?, Whumptober 2018, ahhhhhhh, always., and we’re not even done yet, because my mind went two separate directions at the same time, bobsaysshipem, gawdsdammit, gawdsdammit mav, getting stuck in a laundry chute, i don't know what all to tag as i'm not finished all these prompts..., jarlemis, jartemis, look what you’ve done now, more like a comedy of errors, muscle spasms, particularly when they’re from a certain peacock, reference to rape chapter 4/10/11, so much for 'whump', suggestion/reference to masturbation, the idiots being idiots i guess, which a certain assassin is bad at, whoops, with some occasional 'whump' mixed in, wrong dagger Jarlaxle, y’all are getting a double fill on chapter 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 9,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmanitaVirosa/pseuds/AmanitaVirosa
Summary: Based off a Whumptober prompt list I found on tumblr. Jarlaxle and Artemis being themselves, causing shenanigans, being part of shenanigans, trying to solve shenanigans.  One short snippet a day to be posted for every day of October.APPARENTLY now with a fic within this fic.





	1. Stabbed

The prick of a needle wasn’t so much unexpected as it was bewildering. Surely his hand hadn’t been so close to the window latch? All the same, his assassin companion slid his gaze down to the offending hand.

A sigh, “And this is where I congratulate you on yet a new level of stupidity.” Artemis is pulling out a vial from the pouch at his hip all the same, of which Jarlaxle can only assume the antidote or antivenin is contained within the little glass container. He knows well the assassin never uses the same venom twice- and that he always picks poisons he believes Jarlaxle to have no antidote for.

“In my defense, “ He protests, indignant, pulling his hand away from only the window sill he notes, not the latch, “you’ve added more poisoned needles than usual.”

“Yes, well, maybe if someone didn’t make a point of gaining us enemies at every tavern I wouldn’t have to be so overly cautious. It inconveniences me as well you realize?” Snark, as usual from the grumpy man. He just couldn’t win with the old grouch. 

“I am hardly looking to make us enemies, abbil. I- ” His world tilts sideways, air suddenly seeming in very short supply. He feels the cool glass of a vial at his lips, the thick, and rather disgusting taste of…whichever it was sliding down his throat. He can only hope Artemis hasn’t changed his mind about keeping him around and instead a given him yet another poison.

What feels like only a few minutes in silence passes before Jarlaxle becomes aware that the cool glass of a vial wasn’t the only thing in contact with him. The scowl of his dear Artemis’ ever grumpy face is present above him as he rests in the assassin’s arms(and indeed, his lap too!) and brightens his eyes with their typical mischievousness. “My, but I would be pleased to-”

The thud resounds through the room as Artemis dumps him onto the floor.


	2. Bloody hands

That the assassin’s hands are covered in blood isn’t overly unusual. That they’re covered in his own blood, however, perhaps is. The gash in his side still burns from the alcohol he’d poured over it but a few minutes earlier, the cloth in his mouth wet with his own saliva as his teeth grind into the soft fabric.

In-out, in-out in a neat little line, the sinew pulled tight with each stitch through his skin. He’s a master at keeping silent, his breath hitching in what would otherwise be grunts or hisses of pain. In contrast, he can hear the thunderous clashes as a particular plumed drow keeps their latest adversary occupied down the hall. 

He wonders what it says for him to be in this situation, sewing himself together in the middle of a fight just to try and gain a little more time. He used his last healing potion on the damnable drow in an effort to conserve their magic for after. The same drow that left him in this little pocket of peace within the tower, while drawing the enemy away from him.

It’s with a silent wince and fiercer determination that he tugs the final stitch tight, tying it off and wrapping some tight but hasty bandages around his middle before hauling himself to his feet. His supplies are quickly corked and sorted away as he pushes himself to rejoin with his partner. 

With any luck, they’ll both make it through this alive.


	3. Insomnia

Jarlaxle watches as Artemis lays in bed, eyes closed, breathing even, body relaxed. For all intents and purposes, the man appears to be sound asleep, but Jarlaxle has learned otherwise.

For years he thought Artemis was simply a light sleeper. If the man seemed to progress towards inadvisable levels of exhaustion in a regular, consistent cycle, it had been of no concern to the drow before. Certainly, the decrease in an already short temper had been of more note to him than how much(or a lack of) sleep the assassin was getting.

But time changed things. Artemis was still a brilliant business partner, of that there was no doubt, but they’d become…closer over the decades. Jarlaxle liked to call the old grouch his friend, and more often than not he meant it genuinely. So when he discovered that Artemis wasn’t actually sleeping-and by discovered he meant finally clued in-he’d of course done the inadvisable thing and confronted the man on it.

Which brought them to now. His own reverie was significantly shorter than the eight hours the human assassin was supposed to be getting, so he spent his nights often _not_ watching Artemis sleep. Sometimes. Nights like tonight, the first night after his friend had slept like the dead the previous, they both knew he would be hard pressed to get more than the last hour at best of sleep.

“I can feel your eyes on me, lech.” A soft murmur, plenty loud enough for the quiet of their shared room.

“A pity, I was hoping to get another few hours of ogling in.” Jarlaxle’s own voice is hushed, not to disturb the sleepy air of their space, just in case Artemis did manage to get a bit more sleep tonight.

He was rewarded for his consideration with a pillow to the face and a grumble as the human rolled over, his back to the drow.


	4. "No, stop!"

Artemis wasn’t the self sacrificing type, really. The number of times he’d taken the punishment for someone else was…just now, actually. 

He knew what their target did to their prisoners, knew that it was probably something the drow had never experienced- or at least unlikely from another male. So when the guard came to collect the exotic drow, stripped of his eccentricities, for the master, it was Artemis who spoke.

“Take me instead.” He only got a sideways glance from the guard, still pulling a now confused Jarlaxle with him. So he stepped forward, intent on interfering, intent on making the guard take him instead, his heart rate rising at the idea of Jarlaxle subjected to-

A strike against his face, splitting his lip, and he punched back. The guard was on him in truth then, metal gauntlets making contact with his bare shoulders, chest, sides, until a blow to his bad knee sent him down to the ground.

“No, stop!” Jarlaxle’s pleading, trying to pull the guard off of him, and he takes advantage of Jarlaxle holding one of the guard’s arms back.

“I said to take me instead!” A mouthful of blood and spit at the guard’s face and he has what he wanted. He’s hauled up by the throat and dragged from the cell, Jarlaxle left safe inside.

After all, what’s one more time with his history?


	5. Poisoned

“Have you considered adding spices to your meals?”

Jarlaxle turns to Artemis, sitting on the opposite side of the campfire from him, a bowl of venison stew in his hands. “I did?” He did, he added salt, pepper..basil? Basil, he thinks that sounds right.

“It’s a wonder you ever managed to poison anyone with how bland it is.” The man still takes a mouthful of the stew, and he figures it can’t taste that awful if he’ll eat it still. Although with the history Artemis has of putting things in his mouth…perhaps not a good indication then.

“There are such things as tasteless poisons abbil, you know this.” He takes a mouthful of stew from his own bowl, and finds the flavours pleasing to his tongue. Truly, the man has an odd sense of taste.

A mutter into his bowl, “Any more tasteless and I’d swear I was eating sand.” And still another mouthful swallowed by the complaining assassin.

“Yes, well, we can’t all scorch our tastebuds with the hell you call food.” A smug smirk on his face, directed at the scowling man across from him, watching as he takes another bite.

“Just remember I’m cooking tomorrow, Mr. sensitive tastebuds.” There’s a cruel glint in Artemis’ eyes, and just like that his smirk is gone.

The rest of the night is spent scowling across the fire at each other.


	6. Betrayed

“My, aren’t we handsome?” Artemis could count on…okay, never mind, he doesn’t have enough fingers and toes to count how many times someone has tried to hit on him mid-mission. A heavy sigh and a shrug of his shoulders is his tactic for attempting to remove the intruding hand on his person.

“I’m not interested.” Flat, bored, thoroughly uninterested is the intended tone.

“Such a shame, love. Are you sure I can’t change your mind?” Obviously, he must have gotten something wrong. A furtive glance thrown Jarlaxle’s way, silently asking for help. He’s dealt with this type far too many times in his life. A dagger to the throat only makes them more excited, sadly, and they don’t need any bodies in their wake on this mission.

The drow is too smooth in his approach, sidling over like he owns the place(which he very well might, given Jarlaxle’s aptitude for _acquiring_ ) and it isn’t long before Jarlaxle’s arm is sliding around his shoulders. Yes, he is definitely regretting asking him for help now. “I’m quite certain he would never betray his most amazing lover, isn’t that right dear?”

He just might, with that sort of help. He knows exactly what angle the damned drow is going for, and he doesn’t appreciate it in the slightest. “Wouldn’t even cross my mind, darling.” He leans into Jarlaxle’s hold, selling the idea to his…propositioner, though now he feels like he’s only doubled the issue rather than getting rid of it.

Thankfully, with a parting pout(of course), he’s left alone. Well, except for the drow who’s still far too comfortable with him.

“You still aren’t getting me to kiss you Jarlaxle, so bugger off.”


	7. Kidnapped

Artemis received the little bat missive of Jarlaxle’s, saying he’d been kidnapped of all things, at the same time he walked into their apartment and found the drow dandy tied up and blindfolded on the floor.

A neat, far too elaborate note hung from the idiot’s ankle, detailing a most reluctant plea from one Kimmuriel Oblodra to keep Jarlaxle from meddling in his painstakingly won agreements for Bregan D’Arthe. The heavy sigh from his lips did nothing to give his already forming headache justice. Instead he circled Jarlaxle, keeping his footsteps audible, seeing if the drow would recognize where he was. He might as well make the best of the situation, after all, and so he mulled over the different options in front of him.

He could alter his voice, question him and see if he could pull any answers out of him. That was unlikely to succeed in both the information gathering aspect and in that he wasn’t convinced Jarlaxle was as helpless as he currently looked.

He could keep circling him, see how anxious he could get him. He suspected he was more likely to just make himself dizzy with that plan, and then he’d be susceptible to getting tripped, and that went back to the first idea and how unlikely it was Jarlaxle was as helpless as he seemed.

Or, he could go about his night and just leave the drow bound on the floor. He’d get a night of quiet finally, and it’d have the bonus of potentially making Jarlaxle anxious on why his supposed ‘kidnapper’ wasn’t saying or doing anything. 

The only problem with the last idea was if he ever found himself in a similar situation to Jarlaxle’s (which wasn’t entirely unlikely, given the half-baked plans the drow threw them into situations with), he’d promptly be paid back ten-fold for however the peacock interpreted this perceived punishment.

A nudge of his boot against the small of Jarlaxle’s back and he groused, amused-but-tired, “Get up, idiot.”


	8. Fever

The problem, Jarlaxle discovered, was that Artemis’ insomnia left him vulnerable to colds and flus and other sicknesses that the man should have been otherwise immune to. Bundled with the man’s stubbornness in his refusal to admit(or inform others, anyways) to his ailments meant they often ended up being hauled to a stop when Artemis worsened to the point he could no longer function. 

“-‘m fine.” Slurred words, cheeks flushed, the very picture of something perhaps obscene- but instead utterly miserable.

Jarlaxle sighed and just idly tugged the covers back up over the fevered assassin’s shoulder, trailing his fingers up to feel if the cloth on the back of Artemis’ neck was still cool for him. “I’ll believe that when you don’t curl up in the fetal position on your horse.”

Artemis hummed in his throat, eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion continued to pull at him. He was chilled now, a slight shiver wracking his frame, his head feeling stuffed with cotton and entirely not on right. He curled deeper into the covers, consequently curling around Jarlaxle who was sitting on his bed. He thought about telling the drow to get off his bed, but the bastard peacock was warm and honestly the effort was more than his beleaguered body felt capable of. 

Instead he shivered as Jarlaxle dutifully refreshed the cloth on his neck, the fingers next felt across his forehead, checking his temperature. “Rest, abbil.” 

Artemis muttered back, already half asleep and fading fast, “-on’t ‘ell me what t’do.”


	9. Stranded

They had made it back to the warmer climes after several obstinate arguments. Artemis was homesick and in general simply sick of the snow and frost and _cold_ , and had had enough to the point where saying he had a short temper was being generous.

As such, they found themselves back in the Calimshan desert, wandering from merchant stall to merchant stall with the travelling caravan they had stumbled across. Artemis was off a ways down the line, bartering- or Jarlaxle thought he was bartering, anyways. This far away his whistle couldn’t quite decipher the Alzhedo over the general clutter of speech surrounding him, though he could hear the much more exotic quality of Artemis’ voice that resulted from him speaking his native tongue. Jarlaxle only wished he could convince the man to not hide his voice around _him_.

Jarlaxle had moved on to his third jewellery merchant when what he’d thought was the merchant Artemis had been speaking to approached him. “Your friend wished me to tell you he will be back for you in a few days time. He recommended you speak to the head caravan to secure lodgings there until then.”

“I beg your pardon?” Surely, Jarlaxle thought he’d heard wrong. Artemis would not leave him stranded with this caravan, would he? He could not traverse the desert himself, Artemis had been unrelenting in ensuring he understood that.

“Your friend has gone to collect some items from the Nomad tribe just a day south of us. He will return. You should go speak to the head caravan, I will show you who.” The desert man insisted, taking his arm and leading him away from the other merchant he’d been speaking to. He appeared serious. Jarlaxle frowned, unsettled, trying to look south as they walked to see if he could still spot Artemis on the dunes.

No such luck.

“The nerve of the man!” The drow sputtered, flabbergasted. He had! Artemis had stranded him with the caravan!

Jarlaxle promised himself he would ensure to repay Artemis for his effort.


	10. Bruises

Artemis wasn’t usually someone you could consider talkative, but the last several days the man had been borderline mute. Jarlaxle walked just a little behind him, watching the assassin for clues. Aside from his unusual behaviour back at their late target’s home, he hadn’t really altered himself in any way that was obvious. 

Speaking of, Jarlaxle still didn’t understand exactly what happened back there. Artemis insisting to go in his stead was entirely unusual, even if it had led to him being free to facilitate their escape. Artemis also hadn’t spoken a word to him about what had happened. He could see just the edges of some bruises on Artemis’ throat, the assassins’ collar pulled up high to hide them from view, but when he’d offered a healing potion to help the man had edged away from him, refusing it. The only real words he’d gotten from Artemis was a quiet but strongly emphatic ‘Don’t touch me.’

Even waiting until they came up to a stream, where Artemis went to scrub himself clean from…whatever it was, he’d watched Artemis move unnecessarily far away from him. He did, however, get a better glimpse of the myriad of bruises on Artemis’ body. Including the suspiciously finger-shaped bruises on the man’s hips. 

“Abbil?” Tentatively, questioning those bruises on his hips, the bruises scattered all over the assassin's body. Jarlaxle’s heart sank when Artemis only stiffened, scrubbing at his skin more furiously than before. He was going to scrub his skin raw at this rate. He strengthened his voice, "Artemis."

“Don’t.” It was subtle, but there was a minute crack in the assassin’s voice. Jarlaxle only managed to catch it because he’d been with the man for the last few decades, constantly trying to decipher the enigma of one Artemis Entreri.

He kept his hands to himself, kept his words to himself, and quietly finished his own bathing. Let Artemis finish his. “I’ll be back at our camp if you need me, abbil.” Softly spoken words, but he was certain the man had heard him regardless. Artemis made no movement aside from continuing to scrub his skin in a different area. 

As Jarlaxle made his way back to shore, back to camp, he wished desperately that he’d realized sooner what had happened.

He would have ensured their target did not die so quickly, had he known.


	11. Hypothermia

Artemis felt stupid. Worse than stupid. He’d spent too long in the stream, trying to scrub invisible filth from his skin -and he knew it was invisible- long past the time when he’d stopped shivering from the nearly glacial waters. He felt lethargic, and worst of all he’d let on to Jarlaxle what had happened. He should have just lived with the dirty feeling, let them push on until they reached a town, or an inn where he could have his own room to wash it off in peace. Now he’d have to drag himself back to their camp, and he knew, he _knew_ Jarlaxle would see his stupidity. He didn’t want contact, he didn’t want to be touched or looked at or-

He’d underestimated how much worse it could be when he was older. When he was a child it hurt, and only hurt. The adults had always been far too large for his smaller body. Now he was an adult and he _hated_ \- he choked back a quiet scream. He’d done enough screaming.

His steps were slow, hands fumbling his clothes a few times as he dressed and made his way back to their camp. Jarlaxle was there, as he’d promised he would be. Jarlaxle saw, too, the blue of his lips undoubtedly, as the drow was rising to his feet with an expression of concern stamped on his face.

Artemis recoiled from him, his words quiet and slightly slurred, “No, don’t.” He’d rather freeze to death from hypothermia than have another man curled around him right now, not that he’d be allowed that.

Sure enough, Jarlaxle still approached him. Quietly, slowly, broadcasting each movement. Making Artemis doubt if Jarlaxle really hadn't ever been exposed to the hell that he’d tried to spare him from. He felt rooted in place as Jarlaxle drew nearer, as Jarlaxle gently laid a hand on his arm, drew him closer to the fire. He didn’t speak though, and for that Artemis was grateful. The drow had an innate ability for innuendos and right now- right now that was the last thing he needed.

So when Jarlaxle slowly wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a hug, it both was and wasn’t expected. When Jarlaxle murmured his name in his ear, full of sorrow and pain, the tight knot in his chest unwound just a bit. When the drow rubbed soothing circles into his upper back, despite the fact that they were both grown adults, despite the fact they were both _men_ , he leaned into Jarlaxle’s hold.

For a moment he thought he’d started to shiver again, until he registered the hot tracks of tears down his own face, the fistful of cloth in his hands, the broken, hoarse cries hurting his throat as he trembled in possibly the only male’s arms he’d come to trust to such a degree.

Later, when he woke the next morning alive and no longer hypothermic, he’d blame his breakdown on his physical state the night prior.

If Jarlaxle’s quips and eccentricities were somehow a little more bearable than they’d been before, it was simply because he’d had a decent sleep again. 


	12. Electrocution

Yet another wizard to be taken down in their tower, yet another battle when things went sideways, another scramble to not get themselves killed from Jarlaxle’s half-baked plans.

Artemis did not appreciate being made to discover certain…aspects of himself. Particularly in the middle of a battle. The protection charm against lightning had certainly dulled the attack against him, and had dulled the second one as well. By the third it didn’t matter if it had been dulled, as he struggled against a different sort of Problem. Form fitting pants had never been such an issue previously. He muttered curses at himself, feeling the flush of heat on his face as he continued to wage attacks against their foe.

A blast of fire and the wizard was naught but ash. Jarlaxle turned to his abbil with a victorious cheer on the tip of his tongue, only to let it die as he raised an eyebrow at the _interesting_ picture Artemis made. He cleared his throat, making a general gesture over Artemis’ state. He knew better than to make any allusions to Artemis being interested in the now-deceased man, given the assassin’s history, but that didn’t mean he was blind to Artemis’ current predicament.

“Shut up.” Artemis was fully aware that his situation was rather visible, and damn Jarlaxle for making this more awkward than it needed to be.

“I have a lightning wand if you want to borrow it?” The quip was thoughtless, automatic, and Jarlaxle cursed himself for not filtering his innuendos out of his speech. He expected Artemis to snarl and curse him for his insensitivity.

Instead he watched as Artemis’ face went slightly slack, the flush on his face deepening, the man clearly currently intrigued(willingly or not) in the suggestion.

_Oh. Well isn’t that an honest-to-Gods kink I didn’t expect him to have._

 


	13. "Stay."

In the moments after the thread of his sanity had snapped, he found himself slumped to the ground and clinging to Jarlaxle, his chest hiccuping with the remnants of his unravelling. He felt more than understood Jarlaxle coaxing him down towards his bedroll, which he didn’t recall being there, taking his boots, then cloak, shirt, pants, progressively undressing him and wrapping him in his bedroll and several other blankets that appeared from thin air until he was snugly settled into bed. He watched, eyes red and haunted as Jarlaxle rose to leave him to his rest.

He didn’t recall his arm moving, but before his eyes was his own hand curled around Jarlaxle’s pant leg. “Stay.” His voice cracked, hoarse, his throat sore from cries that he knew he’d made but did not remember. If Jarlaxle saw him as anything, as anyone, maybe he’d stay. Or maybe he’d already grated too much on the business-orientated mercenary, and he’d leave.

He nearly choked on the new catch of breath in his throat, a new well of tears in his eyes when Jarlaxle returned down to the ground, stripping himself of his own clothes, and slipped in beside him.

Tomorrow he would worry about the implications.

Tonight he curled into Jarlaxle’s safe warmth as his body resumed it’s shivering, and his lips slowly regained their colour.

***

  
It had been a long day, longer still when Artemis had the misfortune of discovering a particular wand laying daintily on his pillow in his own, separate room. Away from the drow. The drow that had undoubtedly left said wand in his room. The drow who’s door was unlocked. Overconfident asshole peacock.

Overconfident, naked asshole peacock that was laying on his bed currently and doing…things. Artemis stopped dead on his feet, caught between horror and exasperation, caught between wanting to throw the wand at Jarlaxle and wanting to use the wand on Jarlaxle. _Nonono. Not like that. To-_ He was staring. And Jarlaxle was continuing on as if he hadn’t just barged into his room.

Artemis was halfway pivoted on his heels when Jarlaxle insisted, breathlessly and far too mussed in appearance, “Stay.” How one looked mussed when they were naked and bald Artemis didn’t know, but Jarlaxle managed too well in his opinion.

He couldn’t slam the door behind him fast enough, standing out in the hallway once again.

The damnable wand was still clutched in his hand. 


	14. Torture

Jarlaxle wondered if it could be considered torture to have to such a perfect, round ass always within reach but never be allowed to touch it. Particularly after their most recent discovery. Or Artemis’ most recent discovery. About himself. And his subsequent discovery of Artemis’s discovery.

He still hadn’t gotten his lightning wand back, so it did make him wonder.

“Abbil? A question?” He thought he might explore it, see if he could get some hints on whether or not Artemis was using it.

Then again, he didn’t want to discourage the man…

Artemis gave him nothing more than a sideways glance in the time he spent debating with himself. “What.”

“Nevermind, just a simple, silly curiosity of mine.” He waved a hand dismissively, batting away any concerns. The man grumbled to himself, intelligibly under his breath, and shot Jarlaxle a skeptical look.

“I’m more concerned with your likelyhood to _miss_ with that wand in our next fight than any…perceptions you might have with me carrying it.” The assassin muttered seemingly to himself, but Jarlaxle knew better.

“And if you should get the freedom to use it at your leisure…I’ll be none the wiser, yes?” He smirked, a sly look Artemis’ way and a quick drag of his eyes down the profile of the man.

He was finding the one thing better than making the man genuinely laugh was to watch him sputter as he flushed a brilliant scarlet from his cheeks to his ears.


	15. Manhandling

“Who’s idea was this?!” The words are hissed back down the chute at the lithe drow below him. “And get your hands off my ass, lech!”

“For once I am forced to tell you, the silent grouch, to shush!” A nip of teeth against the clothed(and wasn’t that a shame?) bottom that was currently blocking his path up the chute to their destination. “I told you I should go first! I could have pulled you up!”

“You thrice damned bastard! Stop biting my ass! If you knew I was going to get stuck why in the Nine Hells did you recommend it as an escape route?” He was rewarded for his further hissing at Jarlaxle with another nip to said ass, drawing a nasty growl from him. “I am going to kill you when I’m out of here.” His face is flushed, has been since the first moment the bastard peacock laid his hands on his ass to try and shove him further up the chute to their freedom- and only got him more stuck. There’s a moment when one of Jarlaxle’s hands leaves his ass, likely to try for another shove, “I’m already stuck you asshole, don’t make it worse again!”

Except instead of another shove a resounding _smack_ sounds through the chute, echoing through the cramped space. Artemis freezes, eyes wide and face a brilliant shade of scarlet(not that it can be seen by anyone), attempting to reconcile that Jarlaxle just-

“Did you just _spank_ me?!” The sheer amount of incredulity in his voice is unparalleled to anything he’s ever spoken to the drow before.

“I’ll do it again if you don’t shut up!” A clear threat whisper-hissed up towards him.

“You wouldn’t da- ” Artemis cuts off with a slightly-too-loud, mortifying squeak when the peacock’s teeth return for a slow, gradually pressured bite to his now stinging rear. He thinks there’s surely a colour past scarlet for how brightly his face must be flushed, because that just completed the Problem the thrice damned slap had started. He shifts his legs as subtly as he can, trying to shift them higher up and away from Jarlaxle, to add a little more slack in the crotch of his pants.

He’s actually grateful when one of the maids dumps a basket of laundry down the chute on top of them, the weight of the clothes freeing him and sending them both sliding back down to the pile of dirty clothes in the lord’s basement again.

A quick check to confirm they’re both alone and he sends a scalding, flushed-face glare Jarlaxle’s way.

The bastard just grins and snaps his teeth together at him.


	16. Bedridden

Artemis has to wonder at what point the asshole peacock slipped past his barriers. Also at what point did he ever agree to them sharing a bed. Such was the issue with being feverish and slightly delirious, as he was fairly certain the drow was spooning him. He was unconvinced that the warmth Jarlaxle provided by being so close was worth the trade off, but here they were. 

“I can feel you creeping your arm over me.” The slow, subtle progression of Jarlaxle’s hand sliding over his side was difficult to miss, given how intimate a position they were already in currently. No need to make it any more intimate, in his opinion.

“My arm is going to fall asleep if I leave it between us.” Muttered words, the pouting almost audible in Jarlaxle’s voice. 

“I’m not sick enough to let you press your crotch against my ass, asshole.” Truly, he wasn’t. Maybe the last time when his fever had been just a little bit higher and enough to convince him the drow’s company was welcome, but not this time. No, this time he was only all too aware of Jarlaxle’s lips at the nape of his neck, the solid heat of the chest pressed against his back, the subtle way their legs were entwi- He kicked the drow. 

“I’m not your lover dammit!”


	17. Drugged

Medicine could truly be a wonderous thing. Jarlaxle always marvelled at how the normally snarly, skittish assassin turned into a veritable lump of sleepy cuddles once he was thoroughly drugged with healing medicine. Of course the worsened, higher fever might also have something to do with his companion's increased inclination to cuddle, but Jarlaxle was choosing to overlook that currently.

Well, aside from once again keeping a constantly cool, damp cloth on the back of Artemis’ neck. He did want him to recover, after all. That Artemis felt cold enough to allow him to properly spoon the man was a proper bonus. Jarlaxle sighed, burying his nose in the thick, dark locks of Artemis’ hair despite the damp quality from the sweat, to distract himself from the very, very perfectly round quality of the ass that the assassin indeed did have. This was unbearably unfair, in his humble opinion, and he stretched luxuriously behind the assassin in an effort to unashamedly commit the feel of Artemis’ body against his. The only misfortune of this scenario was, sadly that the assassin was quite ill, and that they were both clothed.

He slid a hand down Artemis’ side, the man bare to the waist, and over the thin, loose, cotton sleep pants the assassin wore that truly didn’t hide much. He bit his lower lip against the groan rising from his chest. It would be so easy to take advantage of this situation.

So instead he sighed, withdrew his hand from the slumbering, fevered, medicine-drugged Artemis’ thigh, and resumed his checking of the cloth on the back of the man’s neck.

It was going to be a long, long day.


	18. Hostage

He should have known better. That was the only thought spinning, endlessly spinning through his mind as he lay, cheek pressed to the floor with his hands bound behind his back, cloth covering his eyes to prevent him from seeing, and, despite his best efforts to recall _how_ , a ball gag stuffed in his mouth.

He’d never clarified it wasn’t him, after all, that had plotted with Kimmuriel to hogtie and dump Jarlaxle onto their apartment floor. In fact often he’d played it up that silencing the mercenary leader was the one point he and the psionic drow could agree on.

And now here he was.

Making the mistake of turning himself into a hostage until he broke and spilled on just how he’d collaborated with Oblodra.

When he hadn’t.

This was a right mess.

“You make a lovely picture like this, my dear assassin.” The words purred from Jarlaxle, and he did not like the way that sounded. Neither did he like the drow pulling something long and thin from his belt-

The wand, of course.

Muffled, unintelligible curses struggled to get past the ball deforming his speech. _Don’t you dare you asshole. Don’t you dare._

The asshole peacock did dare.

He grit his teeth around the gag as the first shock rolled through him, his head held still by the hand lightly tugging in his hair, his body warming to what was to come. His pupils dilated on the second, a shiver wracking his spine, and his breath hitched on the third with an arch of his back, lifting his hips. They’d been playing this game for too long. Jarlaxle knew things about him that he hardly thought himself capable of enjoying. He wanted things he shouldn’t, and yet Jarlaxle didn’t care, encouraged them even. Always with the constant flirting. Constant teasing. He wouldn’t. He refused to give in, not yet ready. Hadn’t been ready for weeks, month, years. Decades.

They’d played this game for decades. It’d taken him forever to clue in.

His supposed collaboration with Jarlaxle’s lieutenant, his co-captain, and the subsequent pursuit of information on it was just a ruse for another step deeper into this game of theirs. Testing how far they could go without ever stumbling over that final step.

_Smack_.

His rear stung from Jarlaxle’s hand, air sucked in sharp and quick around the ball.

He wasn’t bound to the point where he couldn’t escape. He could slip these ties if he truly wanted. That was the insult. The intrigue. The reason he remained on the floor, hands knotted in the rope that kept his wrists behind his back, the gag slippery with saliva that couldn’t dry fast enough from the panted breaths past it.

_Smack_.

What was the point of him moving his legs? Of trying to obscure the swollen stiffness between them? Dressed or not they both knew the reality of his state. His clothes were not capable of hiding that truth, not to this degree of it.

The third slap of a hand across his rear did not come. He wished it had.

Instead he tuned his head, pressing his forehead into the floor as his breathing stuttered. His spine liquid in it’s movement as a fourth shock rolled through him.

A whimper past the ball. He didn’t know if he could manage anything more.

He _wanted_.

Soothing hands and hushed murmurs replaced the shocks and spanks, the rope uncoiling from his wrists, the gag removed, the damp blindfold falling slack to the floor. “We’re all done, easy now, all done Artemis.”

A blanket over him and a closed door later, left with his privacy alone in the room as the hot tracks of tears trailed down his face, as he struggled to right his breathing, and only then could he find his release.

He wished he did not need this coaxing. This planning. These efforts from Jarlaxle to-

He’d _wanted_. So why couldn’t he get past that final step and _have_ it? 


	19. Exhaustion

They were getting near the end of this cycle of insomnia. Or, well, Artemis was anyways. Jarlaxle suppressed a sigh, hopeful that the man would get his full night of exhausted sleep soon, preferably before he bit his head off in his ridiculously short temper.

He’d had, perhaps, a bit of a naïve hope that providing Artemis with, ah, _distractions_ in the evenings might help the man sleep. Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on the man being so out touch with his more sexual side that apart from a quick and rough tug, the man had essentially no skills to help himself with.

The bonus, per se, to Artemis’ lack of ability was the quick-and-easy-to-incite tent he could get the man to pitch in his pants. That remained regardless of how sleep deprived or irritable the man was. In fact, Jarlaxle suspected it might actually get _better_ with the man’s exhaustion. He smiled privately to himself, casting a look over to Artemis who sat slumped and weary in the saddle of his Nightmare.

He did appreciate the old assassin releasing so much of his guard around him now, allowing the man to be seen for how exhausted he truly was, among other things. Usually the sight would invite concern, or a measure of care from Jarlaxle, but today- today he couldn’t get a few nights prior out of his head. Artemis had looked utterly _divine_ tied up on the floor, ass in the air, and Jarlaxle getting to discover that not _all_ of the man was compact. He licked his lips, his eyes dragging down the profile of the man riding beside him.

Exhaustion or not, Jarlaxle smirked when the flush crept across Artemis’ face, and grinned when the man shifted in his saddle from the stiff(and prominently visible) freshly pitched tent in his pants.


	20. Concussion

Maybe he was getting a little too forward, a little too adventurous. He’d thought to take advantage of Artemis becoming more comfortable with him, with his touch, and had decided to explore whether or not the man was...ticklish.

Turns out, he was.

It also turned out he was of the inclination to reactively kick and punch when he’s being tickled.

“Hey,” a low rumble, softly spoken, “No sleeping you idiot. Stay awake.” A hand lightly brushing his shoulder, checking his alertness and to get his attention. He wouldn’t say the assassin was apologetic, but he was at least certainly making an effort to make sure that the aftermath of his reaction didn’t cause undue harm.

Jarlaxle turned his head sluggishly towards his partner, wincing at the pain in his neck, his head. “How’s the table?”

He got a huff at that. “The table’s fine. Same with the chair you fell ass backwards over.”

A grin, “Ah, but your shriek was worth it abbil.” He watched as Artemis’ lips tugged upwards at that, even as he played at a scowl with his expression.

“Ass.” Another low rumble, but one with amusement audible within. Jarlaxle opted to enjoy the assassin doting over him for the time being, each of the man’s movements carefully measured to be muted and gentle.

After all, it was a rare treat to be the sole focus of the man's softer attentions.


	21. Harsh climate

“You bastard.” Hissed words from the lump of blankets by the fire. A tinkling chuckle in response from those same blankets, as slender, dark skinned hands explored solid planes of different dark skinned muscle.

A lathe of tongue and a flick of fingers over sensitive buds of flesh, a sharp inhalation of air as bodies shifted closer still, pressing skin to skin.

“You don’t like the cold anymore than I do! You just like us sharing a bed!” The words waver at the end, husky as breaths come faster, panted, as desert darkened fingers dig and pull at the lithe drow tormenting him.

A hum around one of those sensitive buds, making the assassin’s body arch into it. A pop of saliva and another lathe of tongue before purred words, “Keeping you trapped in my bed with me is certainly a plus, yes.” The drow nipped at the stubbled jaw as he put both hands to work, one for each of the assassin’s nipples, “Are you only just figuring this out now?” He grinned against Artemis’ skin when the man shuddered out a moan. Rewarded him by dropping a hand to squeeze that wonderfully tight ass.

“Jar- !” Hips pressed tight against each other, barriers of cloth long discarded for the sake of warmth. Eyes sightless on the blizzard raging outside as talented hands, lips, teeth dragged rougher and louder sounds from his throat. Another moan shuddering past his lips as Jarlaxle started to rock their hips together.

“You want this, don’t you?” The purr lost in favour of a rougher growl, teeth nipping at skin. He could feel the rapid hammering of Artemis’ heart in his chest, hear the rough quality of the cries starting to flow from the heated body of his assassin. He dropped his other hand down to join the first at the man’s ass, squeezed it roughly as he dragged their hips together. Felt the subtle, slight parting of legs for him. Not fully, not yet, but perhaps next time, or the time after that.

They had time after all.

It would take weeks to get south far enough to no longer need to share a bed.


	22. Friendly fire

“This is what happens when you stare at my ass during a fight! You try to gods damned stab it!”

“In my defence, you’re the one who moved into the line of fire abbil,” Jarlaxle tried to move forward, to get closer to Artemis and make sure the man was okay. He really hadn’t meant to hit him.

“Like hell I did!” A pause, registering the drow’s movement towards him, “No! You stay over there! I’m not letting you near me while there’s still creatures to be killed!” The man sidestepped, skirting around his current foe of a measly goblin and keeping his front to the peacock that’d just previously caught him on the ass with one of his thrown daggers.

“Don’t be so stubborn! Let me see!” Another one, two, three goblins slain before the drow as he made his way towards the irate assassin. He couldn’t see a dagger protruding from his friend’s rear, so he was hopeful it was a minor injury. It would be an outright crime to blemish such a perfect ass, after all.

“Get! Stay on your side!” Artemis slew an equal amount of goblins around him with a fury bound in each movement. He saw the wince as the assassin moved, but otherwise not slowing in the slightest. Not that that was an adequate measure of any damage done, not when he’d seen the man run on a broken leg previously.

There, as the assassin turned to dispatch yet another foe, he caught sight of the damage. A neat, smooth slit in the back of Artemis’ pants over his left cheek. Nothing too serious by appearance, but undoubtedly something that stung and chafed. Jarlaxle’s lips quirked up despite himself. “I suppose I’ll have to avoid spanking you on that side until it heals!”

The strangled, choked yell of “Jarlaxle!” across the remaining distance between them was so worth it.

Albeit less so when the final goblin was dispatched and the assassin came after him.


	23. Self-sacrifice

“Why did you do it?” Murmured words, quiet in the moonlit space between them.

“Do what?” Groggy, sleep slurred. The night he was finally moments away from sleeping properly and the drow decides to talk?

“Why did you go in my place, back then?”

Oh. This. He roused himself enough to look at Jarlaxle, laying next to him, their heads all but sharing the same pillow. Quiet ruled for a precious few moments as he mulled over his answer. “I did not believe you to have- with a male, at least- “ His slumber-roughed voice stalled out and he huffed a quiet breath, unsettled.

“You thought to spare me.” The drow’s voice is hushed, both incredulous and uncertain, a measure of awe whispered between them. Fingers reaching out to gently brush against sleep warmed desert skin, the touch tender almost.

“No one should ever have to…go through that.” Mumbled, just as hushed as Jarlaxle’s speech. He felt the shift in the mattress as the drow moved to wrap him in an embrace, a slender hand cupping his jaw so they were but a breath apart, face to face.

“Abbil,” Jarlaxle drew his focus, pain of a different sort infused into his speech, “that includes you as well, don’t you realize?”

“I- ” He never got to finish, barely started before the soft, intimate press of lips against his own silenced him.

He never heard the whispered words later that night, sound asleep and entangled in the drow’s arms, his dreams peaceful and warm.

“Thank you, Artemis.”


	24. Drowning

Every time the drow played his usual shenanigans, shenanigans that resulted in him with the short end of the stick, it was like a gulp of air. Freezing cold, sharp air that snapped his mind back towards sanity.

Air that warmed in his lungs with time and left him once again struggling to draw breath, clawing for any sort of purchase as he suffocated under the torrent of things he’d sworn he’d long since buried in a grave.

He was trapped in a storm of those long dead things, returned from a grave that should have been too deep to escape and his only salvation was to cling to the ostentatious, loud, either unintentionally or willfully blind to the consequences of his actions drow peacock.

Jarlaxle.

Jarlaxle who was his one salvation in this deluge of emotion too strong for him to fully comprehend and yet only all too familiar, even as that same drow was the source of this storm.

He was drowning. He couldn’t find the surface anymore. Even those blasts of air, magicked to him under the surface were no longer enough to help him get his head above.

So he clung harder to him, to this drow, to Jarlaxle.

And the air, when it came to him, turned glacial.


	25. Restraints

They were trying it again.

Again, with the rope binding his wrists. Again, with the soft cotton blindfold. Again, with his body stripped bare, on his knees, on the floor.

This time with a second rope present around his ankles. This time with no gag. Or for now, anyways.

The touch of the wand against his side, the tingle of static along his skin, the heady arousal despite having only started.

The first shock rolling through him, already affecting him visibly. Dragging a quiet moan from him, willingly. The teasing and nightly torments from the last several weeks, building towards this, for this, another night of trial.

A hand in his hair, tilting his face up. A press of lips against his, followed by teeth and tongue to swallow his moan. He gave it to the drow, to Jarlaxle. Gave him another after it, louder from the lewdness of this kiss.

The second shock rolled through him and he arched his back, rocking his hips into empty air. He didn’t need to see to know he was at full attention, he could feel the throb of his pulse. So quickly, so easily his body responded to Jarlaxle now.

The kiss broke off, the drow leading him to press his cheek to the floor with the hand in his hair. The wand away from his skin.

His wrists twisted in their binds in the anticipation of where the shock would come from next.

Soft yet firm, round and smooth pressed against his lips. Cool to the touch. A familiar texture. A slight give to the firmness.

He shuddered as he parted his lips, opened his mouth for the ball gag to be pressed in ever so gently.

Still no third shock. He wanted it. Was eager for it.

“Patience, my assassin.” A purr of words at his ear, surprising a moan from around the gag.

_My. Mine._

Hands smoothing over his rear, parting the cheeks of his ass and then letting them relax. Again and again, fingers kneading into his flesh as Jarlaxle played with him.

It turned him on more than it should, yet it still wasn’t the shock he was waiting for. That he wanted.

_His. I am-_

Something smooth, hot, wet, gloriously pleasurable at his hole. His back bowed, wrists and ankles snapping in their restraints as an inhuman cry ached from his chest, past the ball in his mouth.

Over and over again it moved over, around, into his hole. His world was dark yet his vision was full of white sparks. Saliva soaking the gag as he cried and wailed, pleasure mounting too quickly so as to be all-consuming.

A drag of teeth at the edge, a deep thrust of that devilish, too-talented tongue within.

His world went white with a scream, ball gag be damned.   



	26. Broken ribs

Artemis fussed, still groggy with sleep but adrenaline keeping him awake for now. “Shit. Gods dammit.” 

A potion of healing scrounged up from the bottom of a pack, opened and fed to the drow laying dazed on the floor. Each breath was a rasping, rattled agony. “I didn’t even move! How are you so bad at waking up?” 

“I- ” Artemis bit off his own defense, muttering unintelligibly as he continued to work on healing Jarlaxle. “Shut up.”

“There’s more potions in my hat, get them?” A little less rattle, his breaths coming easier after the first potion. To a degree, he supposed he should have expected the violence of Artemis waking. Just because the man went to sleep with him of his own choice, didn’t mean he’d remember that on waking up. Particularly not after last night.

A bit of shuffling, more rummaging, and Artemis returned to fuss over him with another potion. Halting, hushed words in some semblance of an apology, “My ass felt…distinctly violated when I woke.” 

He hummed, a twitch of his lips upwards. “I suppose it would.”


	27. "I can't walk."

_Drow. Always drow._

There wasn’t much for denying that they seemed to be the major catalyst for change in his life. This one in particular was especially bad for it. “Brilliant idea, that. Using a stamina potion to push us past our limits.” If sarcasm were tangible the room would be thick with it.

“If I can just-“

“I can’t walk. You can’t walk. Your hat, precious as it is, is across the room where neither of us can reach.” He had no sympathy for Jarlaxle. He did this to them. Did it to _him_. He never lazed in bed. 

“It has potions that we could use!” 

He watched, amused, as the drow tried to crawl, then drag, then just simply laid in a heap on the floor. “Considering potions are what got us into this mess I'm not inclined to agree with you there, oh 'but we can have so many more experiences.'”

Indignant, from the floor, one ruby eye locked on him from the drow’s undignified heap-state, “You liked going multiple rounds while we were doing it!”

A pause, then, “Yes. But decisions made in the midst of things aren’t always the greatest in hindsight.” He was still, to an extent, getting used to how common these conversations about sex were with Jarlaxle. Nevermind the fact that he was sleeping with the drow to begin with. 

The drow huffed, still in his boneless heap on the cold floor. “Help me up, abbil?”

He chuckled a helpless sort of laugh, “I told you I can’t walk.”


	28. Severe illness

Every lieutenant. Every mercenary. Every possible source of information at his disposal he had searching for anything, anything at all. 

If only he’d known. He didn’t know of anything he could have done to stop it, prevent it, but-

But at least he would have had more _time_.

Artemis was looking worse, more haggard by the week. The doctor had said it was progressing fast. Had started both of them on the paltry treatment, preventative for him but only gaining Artemis a few more months? Weeks? Days? 

_He didn’t know._

There had to be something more effective. 

Had to be something that could cure this. 

The doctor had said that it could be caused by passing from parent to child in the womb.

Or from a sexual partner carrying it. 

Artemis’ mother had passed from it. 

Artemis had been raped, not that long ago, in trying to protect him. 

He felt sick. Sicker still if he was the reason Artemis was now wasting to nothing. 

This was now the sixth night he’d cried himself to sleep against Artemis’ fading warmth.


	29. Seizure

Artemis crumpled to the ground, sucking in a gasp of pain, knuckles white and jaw clenched. Sat there for a solid few minutes, breathing measured, even breaths as though they could stop the pain. The muscles in his legs and lower back felt like knotted spikes. Knotted heated spikes that he couldn’t move.

Jarlaxle smirked, eyes alight with amusement and some less-than-proper thoughts churning in his bald, monstrously hatted head. “Trouble, _abbil_?”

“That is the last time I let you bend me into some thrice damned contortionist position just to see _'how much louder you can make me.'_ ”

“Quite loud, it turned out.” 

The drow didn’t even have to dance away from the failed attempt to bash his head in with a rock, laughing at Artemis’ flustered misery.


	30. Caregiver

The withering glower levelled his way was heartening, given their circumstances. 

“Open up, abbil.” A spoon held at mouth level, hearty broth brimming at it’s edges. 

A reluctant concession, by no means the first of the evening or the last. 

“Good! Only half a bowl left now!” A forcefully chipper attitude, drawing yet another glower from his weakened assassin. 

“So help me gods I will ram that spoon down your throat.” Hoarse but still growled words. A little more energy than the day before. A significant amount of more energy from the week prior. 

“The day you try I will celebrate, Artemis.” Maybe there was more affection in his tone than was warranted. But seeing the bashful flush lightly colouring the slowly filling, hollowed cheeks of his abbil, he couldn’t find it in himself to be overly concerned. 

The shade had worked. They’d dragged a shade to his bedside and added yet more of the shadow stuff to his body. And it worked. He could have wept from relief that the wasting sickness couldn’t hold against the added shade’s influence. 

He had wept. 

“Shut up.” A half-hearted grumble. An intertwining of fingers with his.


	31. Showdown

He’d been cleared for activity. 

As if such a statement would bring rationality to the destroyed pillows, thrown blankets, overturned furniture as one drow and one assassin tried to dominate their other half. 

A loud _smack_ , and a yelp.

“Stop cheating!” Flustered, raspy shouting.

“It’s hardly cheating if you like it!” Another _smack_ , followed by a victorious crowing at the soft moan dragged from Artemis’ throat. “Just be grateful I’m not using the wand on you!”

The flushed, heated silence was possibly the most damning. 

Well, Jarlaxle hardly had a choice with _that_. Out came the wand, softly sparking as it brushed Artemis’ skin. He purred in his assassin’s ear as he slid the tip of the wand down, not quite against the base of the man’s already swollen erection, "Better?" 

Artemis moaned, his legs sliding wide as those gentle shocks spawned little stars of ecstasy behind his eyes. A raspy, croaked groan, “I hate you so much.” 

“Mm. But you love this.” More unapologetic purring in his assassin’s ear, sliding a slicked finger against Artemis’ hole as he kept the gentle shocks going. He loved the sound Artemis made whenever he did this. A wanton, aching sound that was pulled from the man’s chest, letting him know fully just how much he was enjoying this. 

“Yes,” Artemis breathed, hips rocking between the two points of pleasure. Yes, he did like it. Loved it. His inhibitions with Jarlaxle long gone. 

When Jarlaxle finally sunk into him some senseless time later, it was with a victorious growl at his Artemis’ ear, “I win.”


End file.
